


Doctor House and the Curious Case

by Kahvi



Category: House M.D., Twilight Zone
Genre: Crossover, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-04
Updated: 2011-04-04
Packaged: 2017-10-17 14:11:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,760
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/177672
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kahvi/pseuds/Kahvi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for the prompt: <i>Any fandom, any characters, Twilight Zone-type twist.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Doctor House and the Curious Case

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Roadstergal for her, as always, lovely beta.

It was that grey half-time between fall and winter, when retailers were just starting to contemplate taking down their tacky Halloween crap and putting up equally tacky Thanksgiving and holiday crap, and radios were dithering between one brand of nauseating ‘traditional standards’ and another. Trees were no longer shades of red, orange and yellow, but dirty brown, charcoal and black as their few remaining leaves putrefied and withered on their branches. Dead, heaping piles of them gathered in the parking lot, sticking to cars and motorbikes and the expensive shoes of their owners.

The downpour was not exactly rain, but not exactly snow, either. The sky was the color of television, turned to a dead channel. Or something like that. Gregory House wasn’t looking at it, anyway. Gregory House was in his office, fiddling with a patient’s file. He was no longer looking at it; he’d been looking at it all afternoon. There was no reason to assume looking at it all evening would help. Fiddling didn’t seem to be helping either. Sighing, he dropped the cardboard folder on his desk. It made a dull sort of ‘twapping’ sound, which failed to cheer him up.

He knew what he had to do. He just didn’t like it.

* * *

 

The man in the bed didn’t look unusual, which was disconcerting. He had distinguishing features, of course; dark brown hair, neatly combed even though he’d been confined to this bed for days, which revealed a number of tedious facts about his personality that House filed away for later use; dark blue eyes that people who said that sort of thing would describe as intelligent, as if you could tell a person’s IQ from retinas and lenses; neatly trimmed eyebrows, and a crooked nose. Towards Thirteen, who had just finished drawing a blood sample from him, he showed a calm, polite demeanor, which was expected, and a keen, if subdued interest, which was not. House quirked a smile. Well. This could prove more fun than expected.

“Now then,” House said, pretending to read the patient’s chart, “Mister…” he raised his eyebrows theatrically, “Doe. Now that’s original. Let me guess; first name John?”

The patient met his eyes without a hint of hesitation. “I’m afraid you have me at something of a disadvantage, doctor.”

House pursed his lips. “Memory loss. Less common than you’d think. Actual, real memory loss, I mean. Not just the kind you conveniently make up to avoid unpleasant questions.” He watched the man carefully, but he merely smiled, politely, hands neatly folded on top of the covers.

“I wouldn’t know about any of that, but I trust your opinion.” He narrowed his eyes, just a fraction, but enough for House to notice and take heed. Light sensitivity? Facial tick? Chronic cock-suredness?

"Well, that's a relief. I really don't want to come across as untrustworthy."

The patient's lips twitched. "You may have noticed that I'm English, doctor. We communicate mainly through sarcasm."

That was unexpected. House flashed him an unamused grin. "Really? I thought that was just a throat infection." No reaction. The man's face might as well have been hewn in stone. There was a distinctive chiseled quality about it. "Well," House exclaimed, "we're - I should say THEY'RE - giving you a clean bill of health."

Dark blue eyes met his in a stead gaze. "Really, doctor? In that case, may I ask what you're doing here?"

"Because it doesn't make _sense_ , dammit!" That did provoke a reaction; whether due to the way House's fist hit the foot of the bed or the level of his voice, he could not say; either way, the patient's left eyebrow rose just a fraction of an inch.  
"I'm not sure I follow."

Pulling away from the bed, House began to pace, feeling those eyes on him. Creepy. Like some kind of storefront mannequin. And how did he DO that with his hair? "It's quite simple. Monday evening, when you were admitted, your entire body was on the verge of collapse. Lungs failing, heart failing, kidneys failing; even your central nervous system appeared to be breaking down. And now, two days later?" He waved a hand, indicating a sprinkling of fairy dust across the room, "complete recovery."

The patient simply looked at him, calmly, and House gritted his teeth.  
"That shouldn't be _possible!_ "

The patient cleared his throat. "And yet, here it is. Now if you wouldn't mind, I really would like to get some sleep; I understand I'll be asked to leave tomorrow morning, and..."

House leaned closer. "Cut the bullshit." The patient paused, clearly giving him his full attention. "There's something going on here, and I think you know exactly what it is." He pulled a chair from wall, sitting down resolutely. "And I'm not leaving until you tell me."

For a moment, there appeared a certain... something in the patient's eye; a flash of recognition, perhaps, but then it was gone. "As you wish," he said, politely, and returned to staring at nothing in particular.

 

* * *

"You sat there for _five hours_?" Wilson leaned back in his chair, trying his best not to laugh. It was hard though; House looked even more tired and drab than usual, but his eyes were lit with a fury that made the complete picture unintentionally hilarious.

“Nothing!” He barked. “The bastard fell asleep while I was watching him!”

“And that’s... bad?”

“Of course it’s bad!” House banged his cane against the floor, making Wilson wince. “You should have seen him when he came in; he shouldn’t even have been alive! And now he’s wolfing down bad hospital gunk, styling his hair and sleeping like a god damned baby.”

“His... what are you talking about; his _hair_?”

“Looks like Rudolph Valentino,” House mumbled, settling back into the sofa. On his face was the unmistakable sign of impending trouble, and Wilson scrambled to distract him.

“You really like this guy, don’t you?” He smirked. “Is that your new thing – references to 1920’s popular culture?”

“ _The Sheik_ was on Showtime the other night.”

“You watch Showtime?”

“What else is on at 4 AM? And no, I don’t like him, and it’s not working, by the way.” House turned his head and gave a wan smile.

“What isn’t?” Wilson tried to look innocent, knowing that would only make it worse.

“Your little feeble attempt at distraction. You always smirk when you’re trying to humor me or wind me up, maybe because you think it’s something that’ll makes you look more like me.”

“Wha…” Wilson spluttered, “why would I even…”

“Mirroring.” House smirked. “It’s a thing, look it up. When you copy someone’s mannerisms, over time, you can start manipulating them into copying _your_ mannerisms, and so on and so forth.” His grin faded. “Won’t work.”

Wilson sighed. “All right; fine. I just don’t want you to go overboard with this; not now. Cuddy’s still recovering from the Trick or Treat incident last week, you know she’s got her eye on you, and not,” he added when House waggled his eyebrows suggestively, “in a good way. Just… let this one go.”

House nodded, twirling his cane in his hands. “All right.”

For a moment they sat in amicable silence, Wilson leafing idly through some reports and trying to pretend he didn’t know what was coming. But, inevitably, eventually, he looked up again at House, who was staring blankly at the wall opposite. “You’re not going to, are you?”

“Going to what?”

“Leave it alone.”

“Of course not.”

With a painfully familiar air of resignation, Wilson threw down the report, and leaned forward across the table. “All right. But just so we’re clear, we’ve never had this conversation.”

House smiled. “We never do.”

 

* * *

As it happened, getting the patient to himself was a simple enough thing; House _asked_ him. They spent an uneventful few hours taking batteries of tests, and idly conversing. The former gave every indication of perfect health, and the latter was like talking to a concrete wall; bland and uninteresting, and entirely predictable. House did notice the man gazing at him with a strange note of melancholy when he thought House wasn’t looking, but the moment he turned around, it was gone completely.

Fine. If he couldn’t find the answer medically – and there were limits to how long he could keep an extra patient here without anyone noticing – different methods were called for. If nothing else, it would make him feel better to see that stony-faced facade crack, just _once_. “Checking me out?” He said, idly, throwing away a used syringe.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Very subtle. Can’t say I’m not flattered, but I’m afraid I don’t _quite_ swing that way.”

“And what,” the patient asked, with not so much as an eyebrow raised in irritation, “makes you think that I do?”

“Please.” House rolled his eyes. “With that hair?”

That, interestingly, did provoke a reaction. The man shifted in his plastic seat, just noticeably, and his stare became a fraction colder. “Are you suggesting you can deduce my sexual orientation from my hairstyle?”

“No,” House admitted, “from the way you’re clearly not attracted to Thirteen, who you like-”

“Thirteen?” The patient interjected, frowning.

“- don’t bother denying that, by the way; everybody likes Thirteen. Me, however, you don’t like, yet you still find me attractive.” House met the patient’s eyes, and for the briefest of moments, there was a flicker of recognition there. Then, the patient smiled.

“You’re wrong, as it happens.”

“Am I?” House said, casually, leaning against the examination table.

“I _do_ like you, or perhaps I should say I don’t _dis-_ like you. And while I must admit to finding you somewhat attractive, I was not, as you so eloquently put it ‘checking you out’. “ He paused, eyes narrowing, as though casting his mind back. “You merely remind me of someone.”

House watched him, carefully, for any signs of physical discomfort or any other symptoms, but after those few seconds of emotion, the man’s face was once more a blank. “Glad to see the amnesia is clearing up.”

The patient smiled. “I think this has gone on long enough. If it would save you spending more of your hospital’s money, perhaps you would allow me to buy you dinner?”

* * *

 

House hadn’t known quite what to expect, but certainly not this; a rather tired-looking diner overlooking the scenic bus terminal. Night was falling, and outside the sparsely washed windows, drifts of sleet mixed with the beginnings of a low-lying fog. The patient had said nothing on the way over, insisting that they take a taxi, and paying for it in cash, as he very nearly had his hospital bill, until it was pointed out to him in no certain terms that this was not an option. When it transpired he had no credit card, House had ended up paying, accepting a wad of bills in immediate return. And so, they had left.

Fully dressed, he seemed absurdly out of place; understated, tailored yet not exuberantly expensive suit, shirt and tie subtly matching in color and style, shoes shined to perfection. How had he managed to keep them that way in a hospital room? As they sat opposite one another, House noted once again the misshapen nose, obviously broken and imperfectly re-set – who, in this day and age, could afford to dress like that and _not_ fairly rudimentary cosmetic surgery? It had to be some sort of statement, but what? And why?

Little had been said on the way over. House did not mind, at first, as his primary concern was observation, but when food had been ordered without so much as a complete sentence uttered between them, he began to feel restless.

Which, in itself, was odd. Normally, House would have forced a conversational opening by now; made the man talk, but there was an eerily commanding presence over him, stopping House every time he so much as contemplated opening his mouth. Only when their meals had been consumed, House barely touching his, did the patient sit back, dab his lips gently with a napkin, and raise an index finger to his lips, contemplatively.

“I wonder,” he said, “if you are familiar at all with the theory of the universal wavefunction?”

House stared at him in incomprehension.

“I speak, of course, of the relative state formulation; what is commonly referred to as the ‘many-worlds’ postulate.” He raised his eyebrows encouragingly, not unkindly.

“Yeah,” House said, grabbing his empty glass of water to give his hands something to do; they were fidgeting, for some reason, “you’ve lost me there.”

The patient merely smiled. “The theory that there are alternate universes, of which the one in which we are currently residing is but one.” He paused, arranging his knife and fork just-so on the empty plate.

House sighed. Brain damage. Or possibly an already existing mental condition exacerbated by whateverthehell that had happened to him. It was very possible that the amnesia was real. How _boring_. “Right. And you’re telling me you’ve seen these other universes.” It wasn’t a question. It didn’t have to be.

The man shrugged. “In a manner of speaking. I travel between them. It is a physically demanding process, as you yourself witnessed.”

“Right.” House refilled his glass. He was going to need it. “And why do you do that? Change of scenery?”

The man’s expression stiffened, just a bit. House hadn’t thought that was possible. He looked like some sort of stuffed lizard in a zoological display. “Not quite.” He hesitated, looking out the window at nothing in particular. “The first time it happened was accidental; not under my control. Indeed, for months after the accident I didn’t think it was something one could control. A natural phenomenon, perhaps.”

“But now you can?”

“Yes.” The man turned his deep blue eyes towards House, narrowing them slightly. “You don’t believe me.”

Shrugging, House took a sip of water. He should be getting back; there was no point in trying to have a reasonable conversation with someone this delusional. Something in the man’s voice, however, made him stay. A few more minutes wouldn’t hurt, after all.

“I suppose I can’t blame you. The effects... wear off, after a while. I try to avoid hospitals, but this time, someone found me and called emergency services. I would like to apologize for the inconvenience, if I may.”

“Oh, it was nothing,” House mumbled, waiting for the next semi-coherent rambling to emerge... but none of this was, he had to admit, semi-coherent. And now the man was looking at him again with that same glimmer of recognition in his eyes. It was leaking out into the rest of his expression, this time, transforming it to a mask of sadness. “I really _do_ remind you of someone,” House mumbled, interest rising again.

“Yes,” the man said, plainly.

“A boyfriend?”

A flash of pain evident at that. _Ah_.

“Right. Not a boyfriend. Not for lack of trying, though?”

“My employer.”

House nodded, sagely. “That’s a tough one. Always awkward.”

The faintest hint of a smile crossed the man’s face. “I would consider that a fair assessment. I...” He trailed off, looking out the window again, then at his watch, appearing to make some mental calculations. “I lost him, you see. Whatever took me, left him behind. I’ve been travelling for years now, trying to find him, find my way home. Somehow, I always end up close to someone like you.”

“Like me?”

“A dimensional counterpart. Him, but not. Born under different circumstances, in a different time...”

“So now you’re a time traveler.”

The man sighed, looking weary. “I am not entirely certain of the mechanics. I only know how to exploit the phenomenon, when it occurs.” With that, he stood, reaching for his coat.

Without thinking, House rose with him, taking his outstretched hand. “Phenomenon,” he repeated, dumbly, wanting to kick himself.

“Quite so. Conditions are better in this twilight hour.” With a final, polite nod, the man turned to leave, and just as he was opening the door, House managed to get a grip on himself again.

“Hey!”

The man turned, looking faintly puzzled.

“I was right about the amnesia, wasn’t I?”

That earned him a smile, the widest one by far. “Indeed you were.”

“I take it your name’s not Smith.”

“Not at all.” He paused, considering. “If you like, you may call me Reginald.”

The door opened, and the man was gone, walking into the fog like an unforgivable cliché. House sat there for a while, watching, until the sky, eventually, lit up with lightning.

Shortly afterwards, the fog lifted.


End file.
